It Was Always You
by EverythingIsDifferent
Summary: Post Mockingjay. Katniss and Peeta returned to District 12 and slowly learnt how to take care of each other, and heal all the scars. Katniss POV One Shot. Song Inspiration: Always You- Ingrid Michaelson


**Always You (OS)**

The light pours in the huge window, and seeps into my eyes. I don't want to move. Slowly, I find myself getting more and more lazy, but I don't want to change that. I've never had the ability to be lazy throughout my whole life. I seize the opportunity as it comes to me.

Peeta shifts beside me.

He's the deepest sleeper I think I have ever found. Even in the arenas, I remember shaking him violently so we could run, escape. It always took just a little too long to rouse him.

But now, I'm thankful. I can rise early, as I so often do, and quietly slip out of his arms to head over by the window to watch the sun rise. Or stare out at the vast forests, now thick and growing through the fence, into District 12.

And so that's what I do this morning. I slowly remove Peeta's thick arm from my waist, and replace it on the pillow. I catch a glimpse of his face.

I'm always so amazed at how peaceful he looks, and how innocent. I always thought he was just that. Didn't think he understood what it was to suffer. I never knew that he was more than just a boy from town; fed until he was full, living the privileged life.

Looking back, I realize how stupid I was. How stupid we all were. We were all suffering in our own way, but the separation of the Seam wouldn't allow us to see the other side. The grass always looked greener, and so the constant envy divided us.

But now I look at Peeta's pale skin, peachy and soft. I move his soft, long blonde hair away from his face, uncovering his eyes, and his peaceful expression breaks for a moment into a brief smile and he mumbles in his sleep. I can't help but smile, and I laugh softly to myself as I examine the scars on his face.

We got these scars together. Throughout the first and second arena's, our scars were erased by the Capitol, and doctors, and of course our prep teams. But now, there is no one here to erase the marks of what we've been through, and there's no one here who cares about the scars either.

There's a slight dent in his skin above his eyebrow from when I taught him how to shoot -bow smacked him in the face. I remember him crying, "It fights back!" as he dropped the bow and covered his eye frantically. I laugh at the memory of seeing Peeta attempt to shoot an arrow into a bag of flour; the arrow continually falling short until he got frustrated, picked up an arrow with his fist and walked up, planting it in the dead center of my poorly painted bulls-eye. "There" he said, proudly as he strutted back towards me, mocking himself. I laughed so hard I fell off my chair, and he came over and insisted that I let him teach me how to bake. "I want payback," he said.

I glance at my fingertips for a moment, and am pleased to find that the calluses and burn marks have yet to fade from this memory.

I have grown to love our scars.

Yes, most people would not be as appreciative of permanent marks on their bodies, reminding them of past accidents and mistakes. But these scars, for us, mean more.

There are the marks from the rebellion. Scars inside and out. We've learned, from Peeta's hijacking to the loss of both of our families, the inside scars are the hardest to heal. Since his time in the Capitol, Peeta hasn't returned to his normal self. I doubt he ever will. But throughout this, I've discovered my love for Peeta goes deeper than who he was. I will love him however he turns out, whoever he becomes. And I am happy to be here, holding his hand as he clenches up in flashbacks and nightmares induced by the venom. And I remind of what's real, and what's not. Though it is painful sometimes; we both stand there with each other, to try and heal the inside that we don't like to show.

But our outside burns have worked in the opposite way. We both have the same burn scars covering our arms and often times, I'll lie in Peeta's arms, and he'll trace the intricate designs with his painters fingers, and I'll attempt to follow his own lines. It's almost as though we're members of the capitol, and we had a flashy lace design imprinted on our arms. It's beautiful, in a sad way. But it serves as a reminder to how hard we fought for our freedom, and all we lost in the process.

Then there are the scars from after. From learning to bake, to shooting arrows, to falling out of trees and banging our legs on tables and bedposts; we each have our own share of small injuries. The scars that remain, remind us of the gift we were given. They remind us that we're alive, and of all the stories we have made together. The stories, and the situations that we were able to get into together. The times we shared; the miracle that was escaping from the Hunger Games.

I am not afraid of these scars.

I embrace them.

I walk over to the bookshelf and pick up our book, full of Peeta's sketches, and designs, and mementos and photos, and trinkets. Gathered from everyone we knew, everyone we lost, and everyone we don't ever want to forget.

I softly crack the worn spine, and a small piece of rope falls out. Worn from years of knots and movement, and hands rubbing and tying, untying and tying once more. I pick up Finnick's rope, and hold it up to my face. Though worn, it still holds Finnick's intoxicating scent of seawater and salt and sun. I gently flip to the page where Finnick's face smiles up at me, and I place the rope back into its rightful place.

I flip a couple pages, to where a face not unlike mine smiles up at me. The intense silver eyes stare, but the smile on his face lights him up.

Gale's face fills me with a strange sense of nostalgia, and sadness, and confusion. I stare into the dark skin and examine Peeta's famous photo, the one that once was held in my Mockingjay locket; given to me by Peeta in the second games. The only captured image of Gale smiling. Sure, there were plenty of snapshots in my head, of Gale and I in the woods, Gale after killing a squirrel, Gale when I came to find him by the lake one day. His smile was a sign of hope for me, and to see him smile was so rare, I treasured every second of it.

I'm sitting by the window, smiling to myself as the heavy footsteps tread the floor behind me. Peeta lays a hand on my shoulder and, instinctively, I reach up and place my hand on his. He looks over my shoulder at the book.

"Do you miss him?" he asks, in his sleepy voice, nonetheless curious.

"Yes." I reply simply.

I do miss Gale.

I miss him like I miss Prim, like I miss Finnick. I miss him as though he died in the rebellion, and I know that in a way, a part of him did. The part that I knew died. He was still Gale, but he was not my Gale. I miss him for all he was, and all that he meant to me. He was the reason I survived for so long.

But I stare up at Peeta's face and recognize the sadness that hits his eyes.

"But" I say, closing the book and gently placing it on the floor. "not like that."

I stare into Peeta's bright blue eyes, and I search for the right words to say.

"He…" Peeta stars, trying desperately to use his silver tongue to say the right thing. "He meant so much to you…. The choice you made…"

"Peeta." I turn around and face him holding his gentle face between my palms. "The choice was not mine to make." I kiss him gently, and he places his hands around my waist, pulling me in and all my pain is gone for a sweet moment. He is my morphling, all that I need to keep going. "Everyday" I pull away and stare deeply into his eyes. "I wake up smiling."

"Everyday I wake up alive, breathing, living. I am almost whole. Part of me is complete. I wake up, and I am unafraid to smile, to laugh, and to live my life. I need that more than I need anything else. And though yes, I do miss him, I miss him as a friend. I miss him for all that he meant to me in the woods when I was young. For the friend he was, the brother he was, to me. But then, there were the times when I was so close to giving up, so close to dying. Times when I thought that I couldn't go on, and you were there for me then Peeta. You meant more to me then, because you made me live, you gave me a reason. Peeta…"

All of a sudden, I find the words. I realize something so utterly true about myself, that to not say it would be a crime. The words feel so honest and real in my throat and are begging to be spoken.

"Peeta. It was always you."

And I mean it.

I really do.


End file.
